Leaving Isn't the Hardest Thing(14)

The other thing about Jay is he’s smarter than I am. One threat left on his truck, he didn’t wait to see what caught fire. He violated Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell and got himself kicked out of the Air Force before the Air Force had time to fuck with him.

I ran into him at a gay bar in Columbia, South Carolina, after my own discharge. The first thing he said was, “Oh, Lord. Honey, what did you do to your hair?” The word “hair” had three syllables. I’d just shaved my head. Granted, I have the wrong-shaped head to be shaving it, but you don’t know that until it’s too late. I didn’t give him near as much shit for his mustache.

   I told him I was headed to D.C. He said Atlanta could work too—we could reach either on a tank of gas. We figured we’d have a better chance of surviving if we teamed up. I ordered a beer, and when the bartender handed me the change, I pulled a quarter out of the pile. It landed on heads. Jay headed out first. I was waiting on a final unemployment check. With that, and a couple more plasma donations at thirty dollars a pint, I figured I’d have enough to survive a few weeks.



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I rolled into D.C. the summer manhole covers kept flying into the air and people told you Chandra Levy was in their ab class at the gym. Every radio station was playing “Lady Marmalade.” It was the time people now refer to as “before America changed.”

We thought it should be easy to find jobs in D.C. Or maybe that was just me. I somehow naively still believed the utter bullshit that anything I learned in the military would be worth something outside. I thought I could mention I’d just been kicked out under DADT and gays would hire me out of, I don’t know, pity, maybe? I didn’t exactly think it through.

I didn’t realize no one outside the military knew gays were getting kicked out of the military at ten times the rate before Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell. You could argue more gays joined the military, duped into believing they’d be safe because of the law. You’d be wrong. For people like Jay and me, the military’s the only chance we have of getting out of our shithole towns and our miserable destiny of maybe making middle management at the meatpacking plant or the Piggly Wiggly. We didn’t have Google. We had commercials promising us college and travel, training in a high-demand field. Put “proven leader” on your résumé and rise to the top. Air Force blues were a golden ticket to success. We ended up in South Carolina, with “HOMOSEXUAL ADMISSION” stamped on the discharge papers we’d have to show anytime we applied for a job.



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   When we talked about moving to D.C., we talked about not having to hide who we were. We talked about living in a place where you didn’t have to look both ways when you left a bar—checking for the occasional truck full of rednecks waiting to toss their empty beer bottles at a few queers. We talked about having gay friends. We talked about living.

We probably should’ve talked more about jobs and a place to live. I don’t know how we expected to find a place to live without jobs.

With just the money I’d make selling my car, renting a single room was the only possible option. Even so, judging by the ads, the assholes I’d potentially be sharing a house with were insufferable. They all sounded the same: “No meat eaters, no vegans, gay-friendly but don’t be obvious about it, down-to-earth, professional, spiritual, no drinkers, no overnight guests without permission from all roommates, no drugs, we have the most insane house parties, quiet and clean, laid back, share cooking, don’t touch my fucking food, no whores, no sluts, no degenerates, no Republicans, no Democrats, no smokers, only outside smokers, 420-friendly, no drama, no atheists, cat-friendly. Cheerful. Upbeat. Positive vibes only.”

   They had all the power and knew it. I wished bedbugs on all of them. After days and weeks of searching, it was clear no one was renting to us without jobs. But then we didn’t have a fucking phone number to write on our job applications, much less an address.

This was about the time everyone started getting cell phones. It wasn’t yet weird to not have one, but phones would’ve helped, if only to find each other, because without a room to rent, we were living in our cars—me in a Ford Aspire, Jay in a single-cab Ranger—and we had to move them constantly to avoid being ticketed or towed.

During the day, we opted for the more residential streets of Dupont Circle and hoped the prying eyes of neighbors would keep someone from breaking a window and stealing what little we had. At night, we’d park nearer the bars on 17th, hoping someone would think we were sleeping it off.

There’s no sleeping in when you’re living in a car. You’re up when the sun hits the windshield. A quick shower in a McDonald’s bathroom sink, and it’s time to find a coffee shop, share a drip coffee, and keep an eye out for an abandoned paper to check the want ads.

After a day of walking around the city, applying for jobs I wouldn’t get, I’d search the usual streets for Jay’s bright yellow Ranger. Some nights I never found him. If I did, we’d do dinner.

   Dinner was nachos from 7-Eleven with as much Alpo-looking chili and condiments as we could pile onto the chips. We’d sit on his tailgate, and he’d say someone told him a bar down on Capitol Hill was hiring. I’d tell him I looked at a studio. It was $1,100 a month for bunk beds, a dorm fridge, and a hot plate. Then he’d head off to the bars to see who’d buy him a drink. Sometimes I’d tag along. But I’d usually slip out long before closing.